Her name was Sally. She was 21, so she told everyone, but in reality nobody knows her real age.

She works as a massage-call-girl, so every time you need her, you call her cellphone and she will come, anywhere, to give you a little massage, or more, should you wish her to.

She would gently rub your pain and your fatigue and jerk you off for a little extra money.

Then one day, mother luck decided to shine on Sally and she met Vince. Vince the prince who fell in love with her, and so off they went into a so-called relationship, and after some time, Sally got knocked up.

Nobody really knew whose baby it was, since she didn’t stop massaging even after he started supporting her financially.

Three months gone, she started to hate the baby.

Four months gone, she started to regret it deeply.

And five months gone, she decided to abort it.

The only problem is, after five months it is not only a lifeless bulk of flesh and blood: it now breathes, its heart beats, its body has formed and it has become, if not entirely, a real human being.

But if you’re a selfish slut, what do you care?

You just went to see that dirty doctor down the dark corner somewhere in Kota and you got it done in an hour or two.

You just let a life being ripped apart, flesh being torn, blood being spilled, and it’s not just anybody, it’s your own flesh and blood.

That’s the point when you can no longer call yourself slut: that’s the moment you must call yourself a murderer.